The Broken Muse
by Edgar Night
Summary: After seeing and speaking with Rose on Bad Wolf Bay, the Doctor searches for someone to confide in, someone who knows the grief he feels... accidentally becoming an inspiration for a well-known poem. REVIEW OR THE TEDDY BEAR GETS IT! -brandishes gun-


Disclaimer: I own neither Doctor Who nor Edgar Allan Poe (although I _do_ own a copy of his collected works, complete with a lovely little biography which was not kind enough to inform me what month the poem this story centers on was written, thus forcing me to use the evil WIKIPEDIA! [Note: I don't own Wikipedia either!] Barrowman! Grr!), nor the city of New York, in case you're wondering. Any poems or works referenced belong wholly to our favorite little lunatic buried in Baltimore. Ahem.

Random note: I'm ill with a cold, and the "g" key on the keyboard I'm using is malfunctioning, so any typos/flaws can be blamed on THAT. Also, canon!problems can be blamed on the fact that I HAVE NOT SEEN ANY DW AFTER DOOMSDAY, AND I HAVEN'T EVEN SEEN THAT IN A COUPLE MONTHS. -cries-

Dedicated to **Kathryn Shadow**, whose third "episode" in her fic "Alternatively" inspired a great deal of this work, and who should also be terribly ashamed of what she did to our dear little madman in said fic.

REVIEW OR YOUR SOUL FROM OUT THAT SHADOW THAT LIES FLOATING ON THE FLOOR SHALL BE LIFTED NEVERMORE. BLARGH.

Anyway.

The Broken Muse

By the Disturbed Poet

The May sun shone with a cold distance characteristic of her behavior toward New England. The streets of New York were sparsely populated, the time of day being one during which most people were working in their dimly lit offices or being schooled by equally dimly lit teachers and professors. The occasional carriage passed by, the hooves of its horses _clip-clopping_ against the slightly damp cobblestones. The smell of rain lingered faintly in the air.

_Click, clack. Click, clack._ A lonely pair of footsteps made their way along the road. Two semi-shined black shoes stepped through the puddles caused by the shower that had only ended a few minutes previously. Stockings, white fabric stained with splatters of mud and trails of sweat, moved back and forth at the bidding of the pendulous limbs they clothed. A middle-aged man in a slightly wrinkled coat owned these limbs along with the limbs sticking out of the coat, at the ends of which were white hands that had written scathing critiques and loving poetry, had tamed the Muse and caressed the face of Death.

_Virginia_, the man thought, a shroud of melancholy cast across his mind. His tired eyes scanned the empty streets. He lifted one hand to rub his temple, as if to massage his own brain.

It had been two years since the Red Death had touched the being of dear little Virginia, yet the pain and sorrow were still as fresh as the day of her burial. The man sighed and gave a shiver that had nothing to do with the wet coolness of the atmosphere. Certainly a fling or two had crossed the horizon, but the burning affection he had held for Virginia was utterly absent, as though with a despairing cry his soul had denounced love altogether and then in a small, broken voice, whispered; "_Nevermore._"

The man passed an abandoned warehouse and noticed something very peculiar occurring therein. A mechanical whirring hum filled the air in a slow, steady rhythm, and with every hum a light pulsed through the cracked windows. Rubbing his eyes to ensure he was not hallucinating, the man stared. With each pulse, a little more of a large blue box came into being.

Curiosity insatiable, Edgar Allan Poe stepped into the warehouse to investigate.

* * *

The Doctor felt hollowed out, like a Jack-o'-lantern at All Hallows' Eve. His spirit felt shattered, like so many shards of destroyed porcelain. How could this be happening? As if having his home world destroyed in front of him hadn't been horrible enough, now Fate had decided to take Rose from him too? It was as if he was the butt of a cruel cosmic joke, and he was the only one not laughing. The tears on his cheeks, shed at Bad Wolf Bay, still had not dried. The sound of Rose's weeping rang in his ears. His shoulders shook.

He hadn't been able to say it.

The three most important syllables he would ever utter, and Fate had made him vanish from her sight a nanosecond before they passed through his lips.

Fate deserved to be stabbed in the throat with a pair of dull chopsticks.

The TARDIS stilled and gave a sympathetic blip. The Doctor let out a breath and attempted to wipe his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. He had left the dying star with no intended destination whatsoever. He had only a fervent wish to find someone who might understand his grief, if only a little. Rubbing the back of his neck, the Doctor passed through the timeship's double doors...

...knocking over a shocked and dazed writer as he did so.

* * *

As he had been peering at the blue wood of the large box, intrigued by its peculiar appearance, Edgar Allan Poe found himself being rather abruptly shoved backward by the sudden opening of the box's front panel. He fell onto his rump and blinked up at the emaciated fellow who strode from the opening. The fellow looked down at Poe, an apologetic expression on his face.

"Sorry, sir," he said with an emptiness in his voice that Poe knew well.

Poe stood, brushed himself off, and gave a noncommittal grunt. "No harm done," he said.

The man brushed disheveled brown hair from his forehead. His mahogany eyes were glazed over and brooding. "Eighteen forty-nine, yeah?" he said with little interest.

"Yes," Poe replied with hesitance. Why would the year be an uncertainty?

The man turned his head and regarded the critic with knowing eyes.

"You're Edgar Allan Poe, aren't you?"

Poe frowned. He was destitute and could only get published in magazines these days. He wasn't that well known, outside of the circles of those he had attacked. "How do you—"

"Know who you are? You'll be famous eventually, Ed."

_Famous_? Poe scoffed in his mind. _Not in this life, sir._ "I was hoping," he said aloud, "that you'd say you were someone I'd criticized. Then I'd at least know I still had some of my mind. Surely, as you predict a famed future for a penniless man, you are a hallucination born of too much alcohol and a need for hope?"

The lean man gave a small, wry smile. "No hallucination, friend. I'm flesh'n'blood."

"You have a singular way of speaking," Poe commented.

"Thanks," the man chuckled, though there was only a minute taste of mirth in his laughter. Poe peered into the man's eyes.

"I sense a gloom behind that smirk," Poe said. "Has fortune frowned on you as well?"

The smile disappeared. "You could say that."

"Who are you?"

"I'm..." The man bit his lip and frowned. "Doctor... Reynolds."

"How is it that, if hallucination you are not, you predict some future fame with such certainty? How can you know?"

"Trust me. I know."

"Are you certain you are not a vision?"

The smirk slowly returned. "Will it give you any comfort if I say I am one?"

"A great deal," Poe confirmed.

"Then a vision I am!" Doctor Reynolds said. "An incarnation of the Tragic Muse."

Poe mirrored Reynolds's smirk. "I've enough Muses for threescore men, good doctor."

"I have no doubt of that," Reynolds acknowledged with a deep nod.

There was a pause, during which Poe noticed that Reynolds had barely-dried tearstains trailing across his high cheekbones and down his long, thin nose.

"I do not mean to pry, but what sorrow has befallen you, good doctor?" Poe asked softly.

Reynolds was silent for several long moments. He stared at the floor, unblinking. Poe wondered if his question had caused some offense. He soon cast the idea from his mind—Muses didn't take offense unless one ignored them.

"Long story," Reynolds eventually murmured.

"My work for the day is done and I have little to do," Poe replied. "Speak your mind."

* * *

The Doctor turned his head and regarded the writer with a thoughtful purse of his lips. He had left the dying star to find someone who had known his grief, hadn't he? And the TARDIS had taken him to New York, right where one of the century's greatest writers of self-experienced tragedy was taking an afternoon stroll.

Coincidence?

Never.

Poe stood without moving, simply waiting. Dark eyes framed in dark rings, piercing the atmosphere, gazed into the Doctor's being. Eighteen forty-nine; he was likely still recovering from the death of his young wife, Virginia. Both of the hollow men had had their share of death, both had—in some way or another—lost young loves. Both were alone, both needed to heal.

This was no coincidence.

So the Doctor told Poe everything. He tweaked some parts of the story—"And so Rose was trapped in another universe" was something not even Poe would take seriously—and completely left out others—such as the Daleks and Cybermen. But he told Poe everything.  
"Her name was Rose," he began. "Her name was Rose, and she was brilliant. Brilliant, wonderful, funny, sarcastic..."

"And you loved her," Poe guessed.

"...Yes."

Poe nodded knowingly.

"She and I traveled a lot, doing all sorts of mad, impossible things in mad, impossible places. It was fantastic." The Doctor allowed a small smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. "I think she loved it as much as I did." Slowly the smile faded, and he swallowed past the lump that had begun to form in his throat. "We were in England one day, fighting for London. We were at the edge of a... a chasm of sorts. There was an enormous...wind that blew her into the chasm. Her dad caught her, but then they vanished. A—a few weeks later, I found her on a bay in Norway. I got to talk to her, for just... just a minute. But it wasn't enough. Not at all," he said, voice cracking. "I wanted to tell her I..."

"Loved her."

The Doctor nodded. "And more. So much more."

"And this Rose then... died?"

"...Yes." She was dead in this universe, that was true enough. "When the wind cast her into the chasm, and her father caught her, he took her away. Took her far away."

"To bury her?"

_In a way._ "Yes."

Poe put one hand on the Doctor's shoulder. "I wish I had some assurance that your pain will pass, but..."

"The Doctor nodded again. "I understand."

"My wife perished as well, you know. At night, I still hear her voice in the darkness, whispering from beyond the moon. Do you hear Rose also, good doctor?"

The Doctor closed his eyes. Yes, he heard her. He heard her even now. Heard her laughter, her single heart beating, her snarking on something had mucked up. He heard her, just as he had heard her for the weeks between when Pete had caught her as she tumbled into the Void and just a few minutes ago, at Dårlig Ulv Stranden. The Doctor sighed.

"I do. I hear her. Every night." _And day_, his mind added. "We had so many great adventures. It was so much fun. We were like kids, y'know?"

"Goats?" Poe said, blinking.

"Children," the Doctor corrected himself. "Like little children at play."

Poe smiled faintly. "I understand perfectly."

* * *

This Reynolds truly was an incarnation of the Tragic Muse. A spectre of inspiration.

_Her father took her far away..._

_I...loved her. And more._

_Found her on a bay..._

_Like children..._

_I hear her._

Poe let out a breath through his nostrils, snaking his fingers through his uncombed black hair. He was unsure how Reynolds had last seen Rose on a bay if her father had taken her to be buried, but this was a vision. Poe, of all people, understood how little sense visions could make. The narrative, painful as it was, smelt of poetic beauty. It had every one of his favorite elements—death, love lost, hearing (and maybe even seeing?) that love in the gloom of darkest night... Yes, Reynolds was a Muse. A broken one, at best, but a Muse.

"I pray you not to take offense, but may I compose a piece for you and your Rose?" Poe inquired.

Reynolds looked surprised.

"I needn't use your names, if you wish, but... it must be written. I implore," Poe added. "May I write it?"

Reynolds thought for a moment, then gave a weak smile. "Be my guest."

Poe thanked him fervently, and Reynolds bowed then, biting his lip, continued:

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't use our names, yes. Or, really, mention me. If you can avoid it, that is. Use other names... but do use something lovely for Rose's name." Reynolds tugged at his earlobe. "It tends to mess things up royally when I get involved in people's creative processes and don't have complete anonymity."

"I think I understand," Poe replied, raising one eyebrow.

"And, eh, no need to mention the chasm. It won't make much sense anyway. Just blame the wind for what happened, y'know?"

"I'll try."

Reynolds smiled. "I look forward to reading your piece, Mister Poe." He bowed once more, waved, and stepped back into his blue box.

An electric thrill of inspiration racing in his veins, Poe left the warehouse and walked briskly back to his home, up to his study. He sat down and began to write. Everything was there, except the name. A lovely name, Reynolds had said. A lovely name... Aha!

Poe put his pen to the paper.

_It was many and many a year ago,_

_In a kingdom by the sea_

_That a maiden there lived whom you may know_

_By the name of Annabel Lee;—_

_And this maiden she lived with no other thought_

_Than to love and be loved by me._

Yes, yes... Beautiful. Poe smiled at the paper.

~Fin~

* * *

A Brief Afterword:

Poe completed _Annabel Lee_ with four little words that were omitted from the published edition: _For Reynolds and Rose_. No one knows why they were removed, although the meddling of a certain brown-coated man with messy hair and rectangular spectacles may be to blame.


End file.
